


de tacos y pollas

by guineaDogs



Series: nashville hot, baby [2]
Category: KFC "Colonel Sanders" Commercials, South Park, Taco Bell "¡Yo quiero Taco Bell!" Commercials
Genre: Costumes, Food Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Roleplay, Taco-Flavored Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 06:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21011102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineaDogs/pseuds/guineaDogs
Summary: Eric gets a craving for the Colonel that... well, only a trip to KFC/Taco Bell can satisfy. Clyde has a yearning for Doritos Locos Tacos. Things end up taking an unexpected but satisfying turn.





	de tacos y pollas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phattomato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phattomato/gifts), [Fitzcarraldo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzcarraldo/gifts).

> this... is a long time coming. enjoy :')

Eric Cartman had a long and complicated history with the Colonel. He’d been addicted to that savory gravy since he was a baby, the chicken skins since he got his first set of teeth. When it came to KFC, he wasn’t much different from the crack babies he once profited off of years ago. Call him Jack Twist because he wished he knew how to quit KFC. Well. He didn’t actively  _ want _ to, but it sure would’ve saved a lot of money if he could. 

But here he was. Still addicted to those Kentucky-fried giblets even after everything. His desires went beyond that of the food itself—there was also the Colonel. Was it ironic, or incredibly fucked up that he fantasized about the man who, when he was but a child, told him  _ do not fuck me _ ? Eric couldn’t be sure, but he also wasn’t going to go yammering to his therapist about his Colonel Sanders fantasties. 

If there was any consolation, it was that his fantasies were vindicated.  _ So what _ if he often jerked off in the KFC/Taco Bell more frequently than he’d ever admit. So what if its parent corporation supported President Garrison’s reelection campaign. So what if Clyde Donovan probably definitely knew what he did in that stall. See, ever since KFC made those sexy Colonel Sanders commercials, he knew he was completely and totally valid. Everyone else could suck that extra crispy drumstick. 

But speaking of drumsticks, he hadn’t had his Kentucky-fried bliss in days and just the thought of it was getting him hot and bothered. It was high time that he mosied on down the street to get his fix. Hurling himself up to his feet, he headed locked up his apartment and headed downstairs to the street. He’d barely been on the sidewalk for a few seconds when he saw him.

Clyde Donovan. 

He was driving in his stupid, bright red pick up truck. And he looked at him. He had the gall to look at him, in an expression that clearly said  _ I know you jerk off to Colonel Sanders. _ But he didn’t say that, no—instead, he rolled down his window, the melodious swampy blues of Creedence Clearwater Revival immediately rushing out like flood waters. “Hey bro, want a ride? Where ya headed?”

“KFC,” Eric responded, feeling perhaps a little bashfully, if only because he knew that Clyde knew exactly what that meant. 

“Oh shit, I’m gettin’ some  _ tacs _ , hop in.” 

He should’ve said no, but if he’d get there so much more quickly if he just rode with Clyde. So he hopped in, buckling up as Clyde rounded the corner to head toward their mutually favorite fast food chain. “How’s it been.”

“Oh, you know.” Clyde turned the music down a little so conversation was a little easier. “It’s been—oh shit, hold on.” Abruptly he pulled over into the streetside parking, using the button to his left to roll down Cartman’s window. It was only at that point that Eric realized why Clyde had pulled over so suddenly: Tweek and Craig, walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, inevitably headed toward Tweek Bros, which after they took over full time operations, became Colorado’s only guinea pig cafe. “Dudes! Tweek, Craig! Y’all still down for some Yeti in my Spaghetti tomorrow?”

“Yeah, totally,” Craig agreed readily, and Tweek nodded in agreement. 

“Just, ah, come by the shop and we can play there,” Tweek added, twitching as he often did. Whether he was tweaking or over-caffeinated, Eric didn’t know, but he didn’t make a habit of caring that much. “I’ll bake scones or something.”

They chatted a little longer, so Eric dicked around on his phone until Clyde finally pulled back out into traffic. “So, what was I saying? Oh! Right. You know, same shit, different day. People like buying shoes and I sell them, so… But what about you, dude!”

What he should have said was ‘yeah, it’s been about the same for me’ or something normal. Like a normal person. But he wasn’t normal, and all he could think about was how it was jacked that Clyde was being so nice to him when he knew Eric’s biggest, darkest secret. What game was he playing? “Cut the shit, Clyde. I know you know.”

It was at that point that Clyde pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. “Know what?”

“I know you know that I jerk off to Colonel Sanders, bruh!!!”

Silence filled the cab as Clyde stared at him. Eric stared back. How long they remained that way, he didn’t know, but it felt like it was an eternity. Finally, Clyde responded. “I didn’t know. But. Uh. That’s actually hot.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I mean.” Clyde hesitated. “I’m not right now, but I’d like to.” 

Eric chewed on the inside of his cheeks. There was a part of him that assumed Clyde was just yanking his chain, but he  _ did _ look really earnest. And perhaps a little nervous. “I like to be wined and dined before I get fucked.”

Clyde laughed. “Well, how about some dews and grub now and we go back to my place after?” 

This was something that Eric could agree to. He was planning on getting all up in the Colonel’s business anyway, and he hardly saw any reason why he should have to do that alone,  _ especially _ if someone actually wanted to spend time with him. That was pretty, pretty good. Was it weird that his internal monologue sounded like Larry David? Eric decided not to dwell on that. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.”

It was settled, then. The two piled out of the truck and walked into South Park’s only KFC/Taco Bell. Clyde was sure to load up on Doritos Locos Tacos, chalupas, and double-decker tacos. The order wasn’t complete without a large cup, which he promptly used to full up with Baja Blast. Eric, on the other hand, being much classier and a top specimen of the male gender, ordered a 12-piece of extra crispy, and extra gravy to go with his mashed potatoes and biscuits, along with a large Sweet Lightning. 

As soon as their orders were loaded up into bags and passed off to them, they headed back to Clyde’s truck. The mixture of tacos and fried chicken made Eric’s stomach rumble, but his needs ran even deeper than his need to suck gravy off of his own fingers. The truck rocked slightly as the two plopped into their respective seats and buckled up. “Hey… bro,” Eric said, swallowing thickly. “Do you mind if we stop at my place first? There’s something I want to pick up.”

* * *

Clyde’s house was nicer than Eric expected it to be: it was one of the older homes in South Park, and was one of those longer-shaped stucco houses with high pitched roofs that looked smaller than it actually was. There were a few shrubs along the front of the house and streetside parking only, but it was well taken care of. 

Eric had kept tabs on Clyde so closely over the years that he hadn’t even realized that he was no longer living with his father. In contrast, he had  _ Kahl’s _ address in Cherry Creek memorized, and even though they weren’t on speaking terms, he knew that in about an hour Stan would be on  _ perfect boyfriend duty _ or whatever and poking at Kyle’s stomach with insulin needles. 

“Nice place,” Eric commented as he slung a cloth bag over his shoulder and gathered his food to follow Clyde inside. “Is it just you?” If they were going to fuck, he didn’t want to risk someone like Jimmy walking in on them, only to be used as the butt of his jokes on his next comedy routine.

“Yup,” Clyde said, pushing the front door opening to homey albeit sparsely decorated living room with an open concept kitchen. There wasn’t a dining room table at all, and it quickly became more than obvious that Clyde ate all of meals seated on his futon, using the coffee table as needed. “Put a down payment on this baby about three years ago. Way cheaper paying a mortgage every month than rent. Sucks when the radiator busts though.”

It wasn’t really enviable. Eric would rather a landlord be responsible for repair and upkeep of that sort of thing, but the important thing was the confirmation that there was absolutely no roommate. Still, he made a point of locking the door behind him before setting his food and drink on the coffee table. Clyde apparently preferred the left side of the futon over the right, so Eric took the latter.

“Got a preference for what we watch?” Unlike Eric, who immediately stabbed his drink lid with a straw and started unpacking his sack of food, Clyde reached for the television remote and turned it on. 

“Nothing faggy.”

Clyde snorted at that, opting for one of those YouTube videos where the people running the accounts get to profit off of stories they read off of subreddits. Genius, really. Eric could appreciate the late capitalist bullshit of profiting off of someone else’s content effortlessly. He didn’t say anything about it though, instead focusing on his food. That seemed to be fine with Clyde, who tore into one of his tacos and slurped at his Dew.

When he did speak, it was completely unrelated to the r/maliciouscompliance story on the television. “Fuck, dude,” Clyde lamented. “I totally forgot to get some cinnamon twists.”

“That the weird sweet chicharrones shit? The skin kind, not the belly kind.”

“ _ Bruh. _ ” Clyde looked distraught, resting a hand on his chest. “That’s an insult to both chicharrones  _ and _ twists. The twists are just wheat, look—” He fell silent as he pulled the Taco Bell website on his phone but he never got around to sharing the nutritional information. Instead, he fell into a fit of laughter. “The food description lists the NaeNae, Twerking,  _ and _ the Harlem Shake. The fuck, man…”

“Bitch what.” Eric’s fingers were covered in chicken grease, but it didn’t stop him from reaching over, wrapping his fingers around Clyde’s wrist to pull the phone into view. But finding out whether Clyde was pulling his leg or not was no longer on the docket. Not when he felt sparks flying. Not when their eyes met, and Eric could hear the $5 Fill-Up song so clearly in his mind.

_ Three chicken tenders, taters and gravy— _

“Whoa.”

There were speaks of nacho cheese on Clyde’s lips, enticing and inviting. “Yeah.” He couldn’t resist what he felt. Eric closed his eyes, and leaned over. Clyde met him halfway, lips locking briefly. He was struggling to tell what he was hungrier for. 

Clyde seemed to be on the same page. “Do you want to finish eating first, or—”

Eric chewed on the inside of his cheek before he was struck with the most brilliant plan. “¿Por qué no los dos?”

“You absolute madman! Yeah!”

“I also… brought something to wear, if you don’t mind.” If they were going to do this, Eric wanted to do it right, after all. 

“If it’s what I think it is, I have something to wear too.”

Heart thrumming in anticipation, Eric stood up, grabbing his back, and going off to change in the bathroom after Clyde told him where it was. He washed his hands first, using the residual wetness to slick his hair back. It was probably odd to change into an outfit when he’d probably just be taking it off again shortly, but it would be worth it. 

When he emerged from the bathroom, he was dressed in a white suit. White dress shirt. White pants. Black string bow tie. Clyde was already back on the couch, wearing a collar and a headband with brown dog ears on them. And absolutely nothing else.

Eric couldn’t help but chuckle. He was dressed as Colonel Sanders, and there Clyde was, paying homage to the Taco Bell dog. “Dude.”

“What?  _ Yo quiero Taco Bell, _ ” Clyde quoted, sending them both back to a time, emotionally, when tacos only costed 69¢, “Y tú también.” 

“That’s so gay,” Eric said, trying to ignore the way his cheeks flushed bright pink. It wasn’t often that someone proclaimed their desire for him like that, and it was a nice feeling. He returned to the couch, this time turning somewhat to face him. He wasn’t super sure what he was supposed to do, or more specifically, how he was supposed to initiate this. Usually his experiences were a little more… singular. “So…”

“...I’m locos tacos for you, baby.” Clyde finished for him, breaking the ice in the most ridiculous way as he reached for his food. 

It definitely eased some of the nervous tension Eric felt. Clyde’s eyes were on him as his teeth tore into that hard shell. Sexy. Eric felt his blood rushing to certain lower appendages, and he felt the need to provide a show for Clyde as well. Reaching into his KFC bucket, he pulled out a drumstick. Holding it by the thick and meaty part, he slowly licked at the crispy-fried bone. The greasy herbs and spices ignited his senses. When he reached the end of the chicken bone, he parted his lips, taking the drumstick in with a moan.

“Oh… Oh fuck.” Clyde was staring at him, visibly salivating. He was into it: Eric could see him getting hard, could see that brat, nestled in rotkohl, engorging and twitching to life. “That’s so hot. Fuego, muy caliente,” Clyde added when Eric was full-on deepthroating the drumstick. 

That was when Eric started easing the bone back out, letting his teeth graze against it just enough to pull scrumptious pieces of fried batter off of the bone. That made Clyde gasp as Eric set aside the drumstick with a smirk. “You like that? You want the Colonel to give you more?”

“Mm, yeah.”

Eric hummed, feeling emboldened, and opened the container of KFC gravy. The gravy was always a focal point of his fantasies. He stuck two fingers in the container, swirling and curling them around in the warm viscous substance. Scooping some of it out, he dragged his gravy-laden fingers along the crook of Clyde’s neck. He dragged his fingers downward to his collarbone and the slight dip between his pecs to ensure that he’d wiped most of it on Clyde’s skin.

But there was still a little on his fingers, and Eric considered himself nothing if not generous, so he shoved two thick fingers into Clyde’s mouth as he scooted closer. Clyde dutifully sucked in his fingers as Eric diligently lapped the gravy up. Clyde squirmed, whimpering a little as he clutched the lapels of Eric’s jacket. 

“Do you want more, Gidget? Do you want more than this, my little biscochito?” 

Clyde sighed, his whole body shuddering against Eric’s. “Yes, mm, please, Colonel Sanders.”

_ Oh fuck _ if that hit Eric deep down in his groin. He buried his face into Clyde’s shoulder for a moment, sucking a dark bruise into his skin. That was when she appeared, eye-to-eye with Clyde: Jennifer Lopez. “It’s me, Hennifer Lopez. I’m here to give you a taco-flavored blowjob.”

Clyde’s eyes widened. “Jennifer Lopez?  _ Hell yeah. _ How could I say no? You’re so hot—”

Jennifer smiled. “Muchas gracias. I love tacos and  _ burritos _ ,” she said, pronouncing the  _ erre fuerte  _ perfectly. “and qué te mame el bicho.” She finished off the sentence with a fervert kiss. Clyde kissed back immediately, slipping his tongue between Eric’s thumb and forefinger.

When it ended, Clyde was absolutely breathless. “You’re such a good kisser, Jennifer.”

“If you think I’m good at that, just you wait!” Clyde didn’t have to wait long, though. Immediately, Jennifer dove down, taking Clyde’s thick cock into her mouth. Her head bobbed, she deepthroated, and Clyde tilted his head back with a loud moan.

Eric, though, looked down at Clyde’s crotch to watch Jennifer’s work. “Yeah, she’s really big on sucking cock. Me though, I would’ve made a Double Down out of you.” 

“You’d— _ fuck _ —suck me off between two pieces of chicken?” 

“I’d slurp up all of your zinger sauce too,” Eric promised. Jennifer, meanwhile, vigorously continued her ministrations. Clyde’s hips twitched, his breathing becoming more ragged. “Stay Georgia Gold, Gidget.” 

Clyde cried out as he nutted, and Jennifer dutifully swallowed it all down—which really meant that Eric wiped his hand off on his pants a moment later—pulling Eric down into another kiss, a proper one this time. When it ended, he looked sated, and wore a lopsided grin. “My turn. Lemme at your taters, Colonel.”

Eric was more than happy to oblige.


End file.
